The Blood In Her Soul
by SocialisesWithBooks
Summary: One windy night, while Jocelyn is away in England with Luke, Clary stumbles across a demon who has been searching for her, ready to take her life after his master, Valentine, abandoned him in search for Clary. Somehow Clary manages to absorb a drop of his blood into hers. The Clave have been looking for the Eidolon demon around New York. But will they find Clary instead?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello Mortal Instruments Fans, because we deserve a capitol, please take the time to read my own little FanFiction here. I would really appreciate a range of opinions and some constructive criticism, as this is the first time I have written in the third person (officially). In case some of you are wondering about my deleted story by the same name, DO NOT WORY. I've just gotten a beta reader - Thank you CorinBlue - and would like to improve my chapters a little before I continue with the story. Sorry for the inconvenience, but it shouldn't take that long... Hopefully?**

**"Just a reminder that FF is a place for lovers, not haters. So if you want to hate, get out of this place." - To finish with my very own quote.**

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Clary tightened her grip on her mother's portfolio as a gust of cold wind blew in her face, blasting her hair out of her eyes. Tiny droplets were falling from the sky, making their way down Clary's face. The sun was setting on the horizon, painting the sky a pinky-orange colour, and dark clouds were approaching from the other direction. She dawdled down the street as another gust of wind thrashed the trees about. She liked the way the thunder rolled on, and the way the lighting imprinted its pattern in her vision. It was good to be free, even in this weather.

The number of people out on the street grew larger as the night clubs and bars opened, and people began taking notice of Clary walking in the rain. Her bright red hair made her easy to spot and her unusual taste in clothing got her a few odd looks from passers-by. She was the only one with-out an umbrella, yet she didn't seem to mind. Within minutes of opening, all the most popular places had developed lines as long as trains.

She could almost picture her mum in England, sitting in front of a large blank canvas, deciding which emotions she wanted to portray in her next painting. Jocelyn had told Luke what she expected of Clary; no visitors other than Simon, and no going to bed without calling first. If something the slightest bit odd occurred she wanted Clary to ring straight away. Clary didn't always like order.

She absentmindedly checked her watch, in realisation, Clary clapped a hand over her mouth. Mum wants her home by 8:30, and she's expecting Clary to call her, like she can control her every move. Even though Clary didn't want to, she quickened her pace, dreaming about what it would be like to have no responsibilities; no expectations. To be free of others' judgement. Instead she was stuck in a mass of responsibility called life.

Looking around town, Clary noticed just how trapped she seemed. It wasn't a place she could be free. Stories and stories of boring grey buildings encased every street in town. The only freedom here came with a cost, and quite a literal cost at that. You can't just walk into a club without a ticket.

She glanced up as she passed the only all ages club, the Pandemonium. Stopping in her tracks, she looked behind her. The sign almost blinded her with its lights, which where dancing across every available surface. It was almost as if they could hypnotise you, capturing you and forcing you into a trance. They called for her to walk along the silky velvet red carpet and into the club. This time she could tell the pull of the club was much stronger. It was a magical kind of a pull. Surely she could get in? After all, what trouble could Clary cause?

Snapping herself out of her trance, she continued walking on the blank concrete paths, but later turned around, tempted from the music. She wouldn't go in, she was just admiring. Clary could feel it saying goodbye too, see it waving a hand as she disappeared around the corner.

Immediately, her train of thoughts stopped as something struck her body with extreme force. She screamed as she was flung into the air. Where would she land? On the road? On the pavement? She was in a position with absolutely no control. Clary flung her hand's out in instinct, and Jocelyn's artwork scattered across the pavement and the street. It had looked like a flock of birds taking flight.

A sharp pain greeted Clary as she landed and she rolled over on her stomach, groaning in pain. Clary was still dazed from the blow, but once she had recovered she looked around for an explanation. She noticed her mother's artwork strewn across the street, wet, muddy and torn, with muddy tire tracks claiming the art. The guilt surfaced, and she felt herself looking away. All those paintings had been sold, and that was the only evidence, Jocelyn said, that they ever existed. All those years of hard work, wiped away with one single action. Now what would her mum use to apply for her job?

She brushed the thought from her mind, some things just had to wait. Looking up from the concrete she noticed a peculiar boy. He lay crouched, half on the street, half on the side-walk. He had electric blue hair and a pair of bright green eyes. At his feet lay an upturned black and white skateboard.

She placed her hand on her head in confusion, but was instead welcomed by the warm and wet sensation of blood. '_What have I done?' _Clary thought. She felt drops rolling down her face one by one, the wind slowly turning them cold. Both her head and her hand were bleeding. A deep cut had formed on her right hand, but she had no clue about her head injury. Clary felt like face-palming. This was something her mum would probably kill her about. Then there was the possibility of concussion. What had she gotten herself into?

The other figure stood up, only to fall back down a second later. This was her fault, Clary realised. If only she had been paying attention. She stood up abruptly and raced to his side in concern, checking for any injuries.

"Sorry, are you alright?" She held out her hand for him, and he took it in his without acknowledging her, still shielding his face with his other hand. "Ouch!" The boy's head snapped up at her exclamation, revealing wide-alert eyes, as Clary drew back her hand quickly, making him fall backwards once again. His snake-like eyes, locked onto hers. Her hand still felt warm and tingly, and it smelt of smoke from the sizzle of electricity. Curious, she examined her hand. On it was a drop of a black fluid, like blood, slowly mixing in with her own. She subtly snuck a glance at the boy's hand and noticed that he too had grazed, bloody hands. Though his blood was not red; it was a greenish-black colour. Not the colour of human blood, she observed.

_It was greenish-black, not red. Not red_. Her heart rate was gradually rising as she came to realise what this meant. _Not human. It wasn't human. _It took no more than a second for Clary to react. For the first time, she saw him for who he truly was. She saw throughout his false layers of skin. He moved like a holographic protection, sliding in and out of focus, with the same piercing green eyes and electrical hair, but his skin was no longer human.

As soon as they made eye contact, Clary looked away, attempting to hide her secret. She thought she was going crazy, thought she had lost it. The streets were still busy, so she wasn't alone, yet no-one had seen what happened. What could that mean?

Turning away, Clary looked to her mother's portfolio. She seemed to be searching the scattered art for clues, or something to tell her what was lights of the street were dimming, flickering as they did so, and she felt a headache coming. Maybe she was just exhausted and the light was distorting her view? As she glanced behind her, she hoped to see a perfectly normal boy with blue hair and green eyes.

Some people might have screamed, others might have gasped and cried, but Clary kept running… And she didn't look back.

Clary burst into the apartment, slammed the door behind her and collapsed against it, relieved to feel the smooth wood against her back. Her eyes had betraying her, the door was still there. None of this was supposed to happen and she knew it. Aliens in New York? Of course, no-one would believe her.

But she remembered the screams of the boy clear as day. _Come back! I'm sorry. _The growl came first, then the high-pitched scream. Only Clary could hear, only Clary could see, and she covered her ears as she ran away from the hideous beast.

_I'm sorry! _How could someone be sorry for who they were? Especially if they couldn't change that. Now she could only think of one more question: How many of these things are there?

The bile was rising in her throat, her headache was growing and her vision was blurred. All the way home she had felt sick. Who wouldn't? After something like that she was probably lucky to be alive.

Her stomach contracted and growled. She pushed herself from the floor and advanced across the room. She could hear talking, but couldn't decide which room it was coming from. Clary couldn't even tell left from right. The apartment looked like a fish-bowl. Some things were larger than others. Sometimes things just jumped out at her, making her scream. She made a bee-line for the kitchen bin, swaying here and there. She could smell the small meal she had cooked, waiting on the kitchen table for her. Usually, she would had loved to inhale it, but now all she wanted to do was throw up. Though the cold night air could no longer be felt from inside the apartment, Clary still felt cold.

Giving up in search of the bin, she hurried along to the balcony instead. The bustle of cars on the streets down below interrupted her thoughts with ease. Clary's cheeks puffed as she tried to contain it, but contain it she couldn't. Her stomach contracted again and she threw up on the window-sill, some just making it over the balcony and onto the fire escape.

Not bothering to move, she admired the night sky. Her apartment didn't provide the best view, but she could still see the city skyline peeking over the top of other apartment blocks. People were rushing in different directions, all just tiny specs. Just caring about their own lives and not really looking at the bigger picture, a picture that Clary admired artistically. To capture the innocence and the damage of one situation in one frame would be incredible, but tricky to do.

She was up for the challenge. _Just not right now, _she thought as she threw up again on the window sill.

**A/N: Please R+R with constructive criticism and your very own opinions, because 2 seconds of your day will make mine :) Thanks.**

**~SocialisesWithBooks**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello fans, followers, and lovely people of the planet Earth! I am SocliasesWithBooks, it's very nice to meet you. There are just a few things I would like to tell you before I begin this next chapter. ****First of all, I would like you all to know that this is my first TMI FanFic, and this is also the first time I have written in the third person.**

**IMPORTANT: In case some of you guys and gals are thinking you've heard this story word for word before, that's because you have, but please continue reading. I deleted my first ****story, by the same name and plot, because I have recently gotten a Beta reader. I then said to myself, "Why not start over (insert name here), and make things better than they were?" You can probably assume what happened next.**

**Thanks for reading!**

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Clary awoke to the sound of someone knocking. Sometimes she wished she could sleep in until midday, but a promise she made to Simon tied her to an afternoon of Java Jones and terrible poetry. If it was even _worthy_ of that name. At least the coffee there was good.

As the knocking continued, Clary threw off the covers, annoyed that she couldn't sleep any longer. The cold air engulfed her immediately and she shivered, trotting bare foot across the unpolished timber floor to the front door with a spare blanket, that she had hastily wrapped around herself. It was so large it trailed behind her as she walked, collecting all the dust she hadn't swept up.

Clary had completely forgotten about yesterday's events, but her pounding headache soon reminded her. A new thought came with each pound. The screams of the teenage boy. His blood on her hands. The electrical zap. Although it did bother her, she didn't have the energy to be worried.

But what did it all mean? And what if the person waiting at the front door wasn't a man at all? What if it was that _thing… _She shook the thought aside. She knew she could be paranoid sometimes.

Though Clary didn't know it, somewhere outside, within the walls of New York city, was a "boy" with green eyes and blue hair, waiting for the moment he could take revenge on the girl who had subtly stolen his blood. Lilith had created demons to be cruel and merciless, and this demon was no exception.

Clary shook all foreign ideas from her head once again, calming her mind, then made a mental note to take some pain killers later. After all, she was just stressed and anxious about her hallucination last night. That's what it was, a hallucination, nothing more. At least, that was what Clary thought.

Simon could hear heavy drawn-out footsteps on the other side of the apartment door and multiple yawns. After yawning as well, he heard the door unlock slowly. Clary was taking her time, making sure not to go to fast for her body. After removing several bolts and unlocking the final locks, Clary opened the door slowly.

Simon could easily tell she had been up all night. She looked as if she had only had a few hours of sleep, and she seemed to cling to the door in a frail sort of manner, as if asking it for protection. If Simon didn't know her better he would say she looked hungover, but this was definitely not the case. Her expression was hidden, a kind of drawn-back look. Her eyes were focused on the floor, hands playing with the stray cotton thread of her PJs. Something was definitely bothering her.

"Look, Clary," Simon pocketed his hands slowly. "If you don't want to come to Java Jones, you don't have to. And I don't blame you," Simon looked to Clary, but she her eyes were still trained on the floor. This was starting to annoy him. It was like trying to talk to a remote control; everything relied on it, but you couldn't speak to it.

"At least, with Eric's poetry," he continued, mumbling and lightly kicking the floor. "And you might want to catch some sleep too, you look like one of the zombies from House of the Dead."

"Zombie's can't talk Simon," Clary drew out her response, rubbing one eye as she did so. "They mumble and groan." She yawned at this, eyes still looking down. No connection could be felt between them. It was as if Simon was talking to a reflective window. "But I can still come if you-" Clary interrupted herself with another yawn, "give me-"

"Clary, just- Will you please look at me?" He had had enough of this "The floor is oh, so interesting_" _it was time to do something hisway.

"Wow, take it slow, I'm just tired. I'm not angry at you or anything, you know that right?" She tilted her head up to look him in the eye, but he avoided looking at her.

Guilt overcame him. Simon was also slightly offended she had thought he thought Clary was mad. "Of course I kn-" Turning his head to look down at her, he did not see her usual bright green eyes. Instead, he looked back into endless pit black irises, with bright surrounding whites. He tilted his head slowly and leaned in closer to examine her eyes. They were filled with a slight disgust, like some who had found a dead animal on the side of a road. They weren't the eyes of Clary. They would never be. "Clary! I never knew you had contacts."To tell the truth, Simon didn't like the look of it at all, they couldn't be Clary's eyes.

"I don't." She looked back into his eyes, laughing slightly at what she thought was a joke and readjusting the blanket around her body.

"Then, what on earth did you do to your eyes?" He emphasised this with hand gestures and widened eyes. Clary felt her stomach churn at this. The headaches, the screams, the memory of blood. They all came rushing back. And by the way Simon looked at Clary, waiting for her response, she could tell that every bone in his body was being serious.

The whole room seemed to dim at his words. Clary shut down. Leaving the apartment door wide open for Simon, she stumbled across the timber flooring, and made her way towards the bathroom, which was to the left. She could see perfectly fine. In fact, everything was quite sharp. She could smell the hotdogs from the stall down on the street, wafting up into the apartment, she could hear the shuffling of feet on roads metres below. Normally the air felt clear, but today, she noticed, she felt like she was constantly walking through tough spiderwebs.

She flung the bathroom door open, and it slammed against the wall. Looking straight into the bathroom cabinet, she saw her reflection staring back at her.

Simon walked in right after Clary, staring at her in the mirror, but Clary was only looking at herself. A pair of black eyes starred back at her. They showed no love or mercy, for they belonged to a demon.

A salty tear escaped her closed eye. She turned around and pushed Simon with a force she didn't know she had. He stumbled onto the floor, then scrambled back to his feet.

"Clary-" He whispered her name like a question.

"Get out," Her voice matched his tone. And when no reply came, she made herself clear. "Get out!" She practically screamed it in his face. Clary knew she meant Simon no harm, but he thought otherwise.

Clary collapsed on the floor and looked to the open door. Simon had fled, leaving no traces of his whereabouts. But she didn't care.

**A/N: Please R + R, because I would really appreciate a few more reviews and readers.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Before I let you read my story I would like to bring to your attention an article, if you can even call it that, about the problem with a genre of FanFiction. This article can be read on my profile, and I would appreciate it if you could take the time to do so, as I feel the need to bring certain things to your attention. Also, if you agree with the story, could you please copy and paste it into your profile to raise awareness.**

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Maryse Lightwood stood before the Clave, photo in hand. She smiled down at him, and he seemed to smile back. His hair, pushed back from his face, complemented his complexion. Her husband was wearing his favourite black coat, the one she remembered kissing him in after their wedding. And then… he had drifted away, got involved with another woman. It was the only photo she had of Robert, and it saddened her. She knew her children didn't have that fatherly figure they always wanted, so she promised herself she would try and give it to them.

Maryse glanced back up at the Clave. It was daunting being in the Trial Room. The seven wooden seats stood tall before her, so strong she could smell the timber, and all but one were filled. The pastel painted walls told the history of the Shadowhunters, back to the time when Jonathan Shadowhunter was given the Mortal Instruments. The paint was cracked and peeling, just the way the walls of the Institute were, and she was reminded of home once again.

The Trial Room did not feel as if it was in the heart of New York city, nor did it feel underground. Instead, it felt separated, and far away, as if she were in Alicante, but trapped behind bars. Though the Clave did not care, as they had concealed themselves once more from the eyes of prying Mundanes.

Drawing together all the courage she had left, she prepared her rebuttal. The Clave had plenty of reasons to reject her request, so she would have to convince them on a team of one.

"I can guarantee this won't cause any trouble for you as we have had the photo checked by the Inquisitor." Her voice rang out, echoing against the walls of the room, and Maryse winced. She could tell she didn't sound anywhere near confident. At the Institute she was dominant, but everything here made her feel small and vulnerable.

The six Shadowhunters peered down at her, uttering words of disapproval. She was of little importance to the bigger picture, they felt. Robert had left her, and the Institute went tumbling after. Where would they find the funding for new blades and weapons? It just wasn't worth it, they thought, not many people lived there anyway.

"There are no traces of our world in it, no runes, nada. Well, there aren't anymore… Robert isn't even in Shadowhunter gear. And in my defence, we added some of our special magic to the picture so you can't make out the titles of the books in the background. If she wanted to know these books, she'd have to be one of us. That 'girl' may be Eidolon, but she can draw." Maryse didn't know how to tell them what she felt. Frustration that she had to go through all this for a _painting_. Anger that they wouldn't consider the children first. Pity that they thought they were doing the right thing.

"And just so that you know you'll benefit from this, it will give the Clave a chance to investigate, see just how powerful of a demon she is," Maryse smiled sarcastically and continued with her speech. "_Then_, when we find an opportunity, we can send Jace and my children after her. It's flawless."

"But how will we know the girl won't come looking? How do we know she isn't curious? I've never seen an Eidolon that wouldn't Change to find answers."

"Oh, please. 'She's _airy fairy_," Maryse sneered. "I doubt she'll ask a question. She shouldn't be asking questions anyway," Maryse smiled slyly, "I'm just your average tourist, a fan of New York. I came here to appreciate the artwork. But if she _does_ try anything, it'll come up on our radar. Like I said, it's flawless."

Clary strategically placed the sunglasses over her eyes, underneath the shade of her floppy yellow sunhat. If she was wearing sunglasses she had to be devoted, so she made sure she was wearing a light, mid-length summer type of dress to make it appear she was going swimming, and added her favourite thongs. Clary was glad that the sun was shining today, otherwise people would question her apparel.

Scraping up the keys from the counter, she placed them lightly in her pocket and made her way towards the fire escape. Some things that seemed odd to others appeared normal to Clary. Taking the fir escape was routine, she had never done it any other way. She joked with her mother that one day, she would fall off, for the railing was rotting, though she knew it would never happen.

As she stepped out onto the balcony she could see straight down through the metal grate. Sucking up her slight fear, she made her way down the flights, enjoying the view as she went. The people on the street were small, but grew larger as she neared the ground.

She had reached her destination, Java Jones. The door read: _Push. _So naturally, Clary pulled on the glass door. Yet, it wouldn't budge. After reading the sign once more, she pushed opened the door to Java Jones, and the little bell rung as she stepped inside. She took a deep breath, wiping her sweaty palms off on her dress, and her sunglasses were perched high on her nose as she tried desperately to blend in.

The smell of coffee beans and chocolate reached her nose immediately, and she felt slightly better being familiar with her surroundings. So many thoughts were racing around her head. Fear. Anticipation. Hope. Hope that Simon wouldn't freak when he saw her, after all, he'd seen worse in video games. Hadn't he?

Even after everything that had happened between them that morning, she knew Simon wasn't the sort of person to leave Eric alone. He knew Eric needed the support, so he would be there to give it.

She scanned the cafe. Java Jones was filled with vintage artwork and classic red brick walls; Clary had always admired Java Jones through an artists' eyes. Everything was perfect there, down to the tables and chairs. The building must have been fifty years old, at least.

People were filing in through the doors, as lunch break had just begun, and there was a long line for the self-serve coffee machine. Coffee was the only thing people wanted at Java Jones.

Every table was full of people and interesting conversations. Except one_, _she thought, as her eyes rested on Simon. He sat alone on the green, worn-out couch, their usual spot, taking the occasional sip of his drink. He appeared to be in deep thought, as if he was completing a cross-word puzzle.

Each step Clary made towards Simon she thought of a new possible way he could react to her. There were more negatives than positives. He could be fearful of her and run away, or he could deny knowing her. The floorboards were hard and polished, and her shoes squeaked as she walked. As she came near she gently reached her arm out to tap him on the shoulder.

"Don't get any closer." Simon spoke each word venomously, loud and clear as he looked up to Clary. Her arm was hovering over his shoulder, but she dropped it abruptly at his words. Simon observed the sunglasses covered most of Clary's eyes, and he was glad she was safe from prying eyes.

"Can I at least—Look, I know I exploded earlier, but that wasn't me." She pointed to herself as to prove it. She really hadn't felt like herself earlier in the morning. Instead she had felt contained, as if her eyes had spoken for her, but now she was confident of herself. "This. This is me," she spoke softly and she slowly slid into the seat next to Simon, as if to ask permission.

His soul devoured her eyes, in search of lies, but when he realised it was truly Clary, he looked back to his coffee. Why couldn't coffee give you answers?

Simon sighed. Though reluctant at first, his decision was final. He just wished is was easier to say no. When exposed, her eyes told a different story, he would just have to uncover the true one. "Is it a long story or a short one?"

At this Clary grasped his hand and sighed out of relief, revealing a gentle smile. "You can chose."

Clary explained the incident as clearly as possible, describing the demon down to every last detail.

"I went to help him up," Clary held out a hand, as if to pull someone up. "Then…" It was like a flow of electricity between Clary and the boy. Something magical and powerful, but darkly so. She didn't know how to explain it, but she felt determined to discover this new world. "Zap!" Simon jumped at her explosiveness and several heads turned in their direction. She smiled sheepishly.

"What the heck was that? You made me spill my coffee." He groaned in annoyance, then grabbed the closest napkin and started wiping at his shirt. The stain was spreading quickly. At least his cup was still half full.

"I'm sorry, but—My point is, that's when I saw it." She encouraged Simon with her eyes. Anything. She just wanted him to say something. He returned a puzzled look, and Clary groaned inside. How could she explain this?

"Hmmm…When our hands touched I felt a zap, and…There was a burnt smell. Yes. Like it burnt him too, I know it did. It revealed things to me. I saw it. It's eyes weren't green, it's hair wasn't blue." Clary felt like her mind was being blown all over again.

"I'm telling you it wasn't human, and I was the only one who saw it." She placed a hand on the table. She was hopeful that he would understand now, even just a little.

"Clary. It was late, darker than you thought. You could have seen anything." Although Simon deeply trusted Clary, he was sceptic. If demons were real…Faeries and angels and warlocks and—Everything, they would all be real too. That just wasn't possible. He almost laughed aloud at the idea.  
"But I'm telling you I didn't. I. _Saw. _It. Don't you trust me?"

"Whoa," He held up a finger, "okay, you can't just play that card." He made an 'x' with his fingers. To emphasise this more, he shook his head and mouthed a visible "no." "You know I trust you."

The conversation clearly wasn't going her way, so Clary decided to try and look at it from Simon's point of view. That was when she begun doubting herself. What if it was too dark, and she'd just seen something? Other people have been known to mistake things before, so what made her different from them? Though that wouldn't explain the eyes. The eyes! Of course, they would prove she was telling the truth.

"Simon, the eyes." She whispered. "I don't have contacts or anything. What else could have done this?" She tilted her head sideways, waiting for him to come to his senses. "We have to find this guy. He could tell me what's happening…" Clary trailed off knowingly, then slid her sunnies down the end of her nose and tilted her head down slightly.

"Keep those on." Simon whispered harshly as he rushed to push her glasses back up, almost knocking his cup over again in the process. No way was he going to let anyone take notice of what was going on. Dark black eyes? He didn't know what to think, and he doubted others would.

Simon only knew that something weird was going on. He refused to believe that a demon could have done this, yet he refused to believe Clary would lie. Simon could only assume that what Clary had said, she _thought _was true. But he would still have to support her own opinion like a believing friend would.

"When mum gets back from England she's going to kill me." Clary slumped back down into her seat and frowned. "I lost her portfolio last night and now she won't have anything to send to apply for a job at the national art museum. She was going to pick out her favourite piece, you know? And for some stupid reason," Clary raised her voice, slamming her hand down on the table and making the coffee mugs vibrate "she already sold all of those paintings. Bye-bye photos, bye-bye job." She groaned, realising how much trouble she'd be in when Jocelyn found out.

"Calm down Clary, that doesn't matter right now. Anyway, how would we even find this guy? No-one in the city knows every _single_ person." Simon paused to take another sip. "He could even be a tourist that left the night you saw him." As much as Simon hated to admit it and disappoint Clary, no-one would be able to help them.

"Tsk. Tsk. Tsk" Clary wagged her finger at Simon. "Who has never been to a club?" She felt proud as she attempted to lift and eyebrow, but instead ended up lifting both.

"I haven't." Simon answered.

"Apart from you." Clary put her hands on her hips.

"_You _haven't." He eyed her suspiciously, as if to ask if she had been to one.

"Apart form the both of us, and your friends. Never mind, it was a rhetorical question. What I meant to say is that there must be, say, _at least_ one bouncer in the city that's seen this guy in around the past month."

"I don't know, Clary. Even if we actually find him he could be dangerous." He tried to warn her.

"Then think of me as Clarissa Dangerous Fray." She slid off the couch, standing up, and curtsied at him, expertly clasped her hands together. "At your service." She smiled broadly as her plan came together.

Simon sighed at how her. Typical Clary. "Did you know that you are incredibly stubborn? Stubborn enough for me to know you'll do it by yourself if I don't come."

"Thanks Simon. This means _a lot _to me," Clary said, gathering her belongings in a rush. "How about 10 o'clock at the most popular club, tomorrow night? What was it called again? P…P…" She clicked her fingers to jog her memory.

"Pandemonium?" Simon questioned.

"That's it. So can you make it?" She looked to the elevated platform in front, where Eric stood, then back at Simon. Her smile became uneasy. "I know I said I'd-"

"Don't worry about it. Eric didn't even know you were coming. Anyway, if we-_you,_" Simon corrected himself, "actually find him, you might want bigger sunnies. Scuba diving size bigger." He broke into an infectious grin.

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**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please R + R. FYI: I am also aiming for a total of 10 reviews before I update this story, and it would really make my day if you could take 30 seconds out of your day to review. Thank you again, and have a good one.**

**~SocialisesWithBooks**


	4. Chapter 4

When Clary woke up the next day, she was reminded of the problem at hand. The original shock had warn off, but she was still baffled at how something like this had happened. It just didn't make sense. There's no such thing as aliens, Clary knew that, but she couldn't bring herself to accept the facts. She was glad her curiosity would be settled that night, as she'd felt cold inside, like her heart was frozen, and her feet were stiff and sore. The high stone table top, which she barely reached, usually felt cool to touch, but today it felt warm and welcoming.

Something told Clary that _his blood_ had changed her, and she didn't know what to think. She felt different. Warmer. Happier. More _daring._

Drawing her mind back to the task at hand, Clary rushed around mindlessly. Why couldn't keys just find themselves? Someone really needed to invent a key-tracker, she thought, then everyone would feel relieved knowing they would never again miss-place their keys. They don't just disappear like that, they're always looked after carefully, guarded by layers of fabric deep in someone's handbag, or left neatly on a hook by the front door. Clary had searched more than just these two places, more than just once.

Ten minutes of unsatisfied, worthless searching. That was how long Clary had been tearing the apartment apart. Ten minutes wasted that could of been used for her 'artistic busking' as Simon liked to call it.

Past pulling her hair and grunting loud enough for people two blocks down to her in frustration, Clary huffed and shrugged on her black knitted jumper. Her eyes widened in realisation as she froze to the sound of jingling metal. Lifting her arm once more, she flapped it about in the air. Her coat jingled again. _Finally_, she thought, and did a little happy dance on the spot, waving her arms about crazily. She dug her hand into her pocket, and retrieved the keys she had misplaced. Staring at them in her open hand, she smiled gratefully and rolled her eyes, then she and put them back in her pocket.

Gathering all that she needed, a paint brush, her paints and a stack of cartridge paper, and carefully placing it in her bag, she practically ran to the balcony. She swiftly collected her dark brown shades, placed them over her eyes, and slammed the back door closed from her burst of adrenaline, clearly not caring about the noise she made. She then locked it with ease, travelling down the rusty fire escape for the first time that day.

It was a short walk from her mother's house to the bus stop. After catching the bus, she would cross the road to the small limestone bench to set up her stall.

She pictured the setting. Buskers would line the sidewalk, as usual, but her busking was a little different to tradition. Clary was a street artist, though not the kind to face-paint or graffiti buildings. She would do on the spot paintings and sketches for the passers-by, but when a certain image was requested, she would charge more and use her finest acrylics on a large canvas.

As Clary sat on the blue rotting wood of the bus stop, she found herself fiddling with the hem of her skirt. Smiling to herself, she remembered the little girl with curly red hair who loved dresses and skirts and cart-wheeled around the place instead of walking, and found herself realising that some things could never change.

Lost in a swarm of her childhood memories, she quickly resurfaced, smoothing her skirt down, as the rundown bus halted in front of her. It lacked air conditioning, and the paint, now peeling, was decorated with graffiti. No matter how ugly, she argued, art was, _is, _art.

The driver opened the doors as the gas was released with a sizzle. Clary stepped in and waved at him with broad smile. He always made her day. In fact, there was never a time in which he couldn't cheer her up.

"Hello Clary. What are we doing today?" The man turned to face her, raising his eyebrows in query. His deep, warming voice made her feel welcome, and she flashed a smile once again. Even though he had a lisp and crooked teeth, there was a quality that only he had. Clary didn't know exactly how to describe it, but she knew it was unique to him.

"Nothing much, just some street art." Gesturing, she lifted her art bag. "What about you, Greg?"

"Oh, some here, some there, ev'rything's all over the place when you do what I do. Hope you have a great time," he gave a toothy grin, revealing his gold incisor tooth.

The doors closed with an ear-piercing shriek, and Clary flinched, looking the Greg, who did not move at all. Clary then found herself relaxing on an individual seat, surrounded by strangers she would likely never see again. She set down her bag on her lap, and tipped her head back onto the seat. It was stuffy, as usual, and the windows were scratched with inappropriate words and phrases, making the situation even more dull.

As rickety the doors squeaked open once more, she farewelled her friend and crossed the street to her destination. She walked along the grey pathway and smiled at any friendly New Yorkers. Despite what had recently happened, Clary found it hard to be pessimistic. The world was too vibrant to be acting that way.

The shade of the regular young oak trees hanging above cast a cool shadow over the sidewalk, and invited to birds to stay. One day, she thought, the council would regret planting such big trees, and remove them, as their growing roots would become a nuisance, and lift up the sidewalk tiling. But Clary liked the big trees, as they had personality. They gave off that 'I-don't-care what-nobody-thinks' sassy aura, and grew where they wanted, challenging you to cut them down.

Clary passed under another oak, and laid her equipment down on the old limestone bench, which was worn down from water and many plants. She then set up her station and waited for customers.

Some were curious, and asked about her style, while others just walked off, on their way to something that was _surely_ more important than art. After multiple sketches and paintings of men, women and dogs alike, she found she had almost neared ninety dollars. Soon, Clary felt like she had been sitting lifeless among the greenery long enough to have watched the ivy, curling around the rusting metal fence, grow a few inches.

Hours passed, and so did the people. Clary continued on her own painting of the iron gates wrapped in ivy. It would be a present for Simon on his seventeenth birthday, along with a new video game she had recently bought him. Within minutes, Clary found herself indulged in the 2D world she had surrounded herself with her whole life. She loved the feeling of dried strokes of paint against a canvas. She loved the way each artist worked. Unique. Odd. Each world full of detail and wonder.

"E-hem." Clary was snapped out of her thoughts as she noticed a tall woman standing a few feet away, admiring the artwork on display. Clary stood up off the floor to look at her. She had engaging blue eyes and short thick black hair. Clary found herself staring at how beautiful this women was, despite her age.

"Oh, sorry," Clary quickly tucked a hair behind her ear, "can I help you with something?"

"I was wondering if you did custom post-cards? Or maybe an oil painting would be nice?" The women tapped her finger to her chin. She stared off into the distance as the wind disrupted her perfect hair. "I'm sure you know what's best," the woman smiled kindly and looked expectantly to Clary.

"Oh, well-" Clary's mind rushed around. She needed the money, but this lady seemed to want her opinion for more than just the sake of art. "It depends on what—and who, for that matter—you want to get this for."

"For my children. I want something to… remind them of their father. Always off in a far country to do his job. I know they miss him, I can see it in their eyes…" The woman snapped her head up to Clary, breaking the heart-felt moment, and drew in a deep breath. "How rude of myself not to introduce. Maryse." She stuck down her hand for Clary.

"Clary," she replied, and shook it firmly.

"You might as well look at the photo." Maryse dug into her handbag and pulled out a slightly crumpled photo. After smoothing it out, she cautiously handed it to Clary, who took it while looking deep into the woman's eyes. Maryse had crows feet, and she bared the eyes of someone who had seen many things; good and bad. Clary could easily tell her eyes were older than her face, and her soul older than her body.

She glanced at the man in the photograph. He was wearing a formal looking dark black vest, accompanied by a black pinstripe shirt with many pockets. The man was standing in a library, Clary observed. The background was full of shelves, which were overloaded with books. Books about what, she didn't know. Then the question popped into her mind.

"Would you like me to put detail into this… oil painting?"

"Just do what you seem fit. I have no interest in the matter. Just how much did you say that would cost? I can't quite remember, and I doubt your services would be free." The other woman had already brought out her purse and had a fifty dollar note ready.

"That won't be necessary, it's only thirty for an oil. They're roughly this size," Clary gestured with her index fingers, drawing an imaginary box.

"Well then, you can keep the change."

"I can… keep it?" Clary took the fifty dollar note with gratitude, eyeing it as if it were a first place prize. "I promise, it won't be disappointing."

The woman kept a straight face, thinking of all the things this demon had done to innocents. "I'm sure it won't be."

**A/N: **

**Please leave a review, or give me a quick PM, because 2 seconds of your day will make mine :)**

**I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while, but I've been working on my other story and might not update this within another few months. This is really just an explanation and lead-up to what's about to happen. It's as far as I have written, so I really hope you liked it!**


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